Peril

His own death beckoned him softly, just as it had several days before, promising an end, but also, as he began to imagine it, a beginning, a return, as he let himself envision it, to the arms of Marisol.

He knew that every religion proclaimed the possibility of such miraculous reunions. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps it could be true. Perhaps only a veil separated one world from another, life’s longing and inadequacy from the ecstatic fulfillment that waited on the other side. If it were true, Stark reasoned, then why had he gone on, since nothing but the slender line of his tiny throbbing pulse kept him from Marisol.

The man groaned slightly, drawing Stark back to earth. He hardened his voice and prepared to reapply the towel.

“Who do you work for?” he said.

EDDIE

Tony.

That was the name the silver-haired man wanted. But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t give Tony up. Because Tony was his friend and had always been nice to him, helped him out from time to time, told him that he was going to give him a raise so he could buy a new car. Eddie concentrated on these things while the man asked him over and over to give him a name.

He moved his naked toes because they were the only parts of his body that didn’t hurt, or didn’t feel some aching need for relief. His stomach cried for food, and his mouth sought water, and his whole body, except for his toes, recoiled at the slightest touch or sound. He remembered once opening a clamshell on the beach and touching the tender, pulpy inside with the tip of his finger. The clam had drawn in at that slight touch, and that was how he felt now, like a clam taken out of its shell, utterly vulnerable to everything.

And yet, at the same time, something very deep seemed whole and protected and beyond anything that could be done to harm it or cause it to collapse. He knew that Father Mike would call that part his soul, but he wasn’t sure that this was really what it was. Maybe it was just stubbornness or pride. No, he thought, it wasn’t that. It was just that he didn’t want to fly apart.

Years before, Father Mike had told him that a man was like a dandelion. Delicate. A breath of wind could tear it apart. But a man who knew himself was like that same plant, only made of steel. It still looked frail. It still looked as though it couldn’t stand up to much. But it had a coating around it. The coating was invisible, but it sealed all the small fibers in a case that nothing could break. And this invisible case that surrounded you was your soul, and when it was pure, nothing could get to all the little fibers that were inside it.

“Who do you work for?”

He closed his eyes and imagined himself as a dandelion blowing in the wind, all the ones around him tearing and shredding, but himself standing firm and whole and not ever giving in.

MORTIMER

He’d wanted to go home after talking with Caruso, but something in their conversation continued to gnaw at him, a little sharp-toothed beast that wouldn’t stop nipping at his mind. It was Caruso’s tone, so oddly distant, like a man under anesthetic, some part of him gone numb. Why was that? Mortimer wondered now. What the fuck was going on? He thought of Abe, of all that could blow up in his face if Caruso showed up at the bar, tried to strong-arm the woman. He thought of the gun and raged at himself for giving it to him. What did Abe know about guns, for Christ’s sake? He was just as likely to put a bullet in his foot as plug Caruso or Labriola or whoever else tried to get between him and the broad.

Fucking gun, Mortimer thought, his mind now swinging in a different direction as he labored to find a way out for Abe. He could rush to McPherson’s, tell Abe to get out of town and take the woman with him. But where would they go? It didn’t matter really. Labriola would find them eventually. And besides, Caruso would know who’d tipped Abe off. Even worse, this solution, which it couldn’t even be called a solution but Mortimer could find no other word to use, this solution still left Stark behind that black curtain, doing God-knows-what to the poor helpless bastard Caruso had put on him.

Okay, Mortimer thought, first things first. Deal with one thing, clear that up, then go to the next one.

He decided the first thing to deal with was Abe, and what mattered with Abe was getting that gun.

He found him at the bar, all decked out in new clothes, a sure sign that he was still falling.

“You’re becoming a regular, Morty,” Abe said.

Mortimer nodded. “Looks like you’re going out. That girl you mentioned, the singer.”

“Yeah, we’re having dinner before she comes here.”

Mortimer smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” he said, “that’s real nice, Abe.” He cleared his throat slightly. “So, this girl, you said some guy was after her.”

“That’s what she’s afraid of, yeah.”

“But he ain’t found her, right?”

“Not yet, I guess.”

“And he ain’t likely to, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“What I mean is, you probably don’t need that gun I give you, right?”